Voltage In My Veins
by The Knife In Your Side
Summary: Jean Kirschtein always thought superheroes were fools, and nothing could really change that. However waking up with two days' worth of amnesia and a lichtenberg figure scar running down his spine definitely put a spin on such an opinion, especially when the one who found him was Marco Bodt, healer and hero in his own right... (jeanmarco superhero!AU)


"_What makes a hero? Courage, strength, morality, withstanding adversity? Are these the traits that truly show and create a hero? Is the light truly the source of darkness or vice versa? Is the soul a source of hope or despair? Who are these so called heroes and where do they come from? Are their origins in obscurity or in plain sight?" _

―_Fyodor Dostoyevsky_

* * *

The dawn sky was drawn kaleidoscopic in hues of purple, pink and warm orange as Jean Kirschtein kicked a battered skateboard under his feet with a scratching sound that seemed alien to the quiet air. He'd chanced upon the rare moment in time where the night creatures had made their bed but the birds and other assorted daylight animals had not yet risen to the call of the sun pouring warmth across the dewy new day.

If he'd been in any better mood, he might have stopped and photographed the view, however the awakening via seven calls and countless texts from his shit-for-brains roommate ruined any form of introspection the sky could have possibly draw from him.

Trost University's on-campus Comic Café was settled in a small nook between a second-hand book store and an all-vegan café in a row of other small, privately operated shops.

Jean knew it wasn't the worst place in the world to work; he had a decent wage, flexible hours and a good boss, but _fuck_ it was annoying sometimes, especially when two of his very, very small amount of friends were some of the stores most frequent visitors, and were sitting side by side on the concrete against the door grinning as if it somehow wasn't 6am.

As he approached they scrambled to their feet.

"Connie, I will _kill _you. Tonight when you're sleeping, I will castrate you, send your dick to your mother and stick a mechanical pencil in your jugular, then post pictures of 4chan so some fat 40-year-old named Larry can jack off to it," Jean was livid, not knowing himself how serious the threat was.

"No need to go Ramsay Snow on me, this isn't _Game of Thrones_ – you're here now, that's all the matters, right?" his voice wavered in fear, because honestly, it's Connie. And the day Connie thinks through one of his brilliant ideas before enacting upon it, is the day Sasha says she's not hungry.

So, kicking his skateboard into his hands he hit the bald idiot in the head hard enough that the dipshit will have a bump later on.

"Jesus, you're so violent…" he murmured, rubbing the sore spot.

Sasha clasped her hands as if she was praying, "C'mon Jean, you have the keys… let us in… please, please, please, _please_–"

He sighed fiddling with the keys, "I fucking hate you. Armin literally lives upstairs. I live across campus. Connie, you're my fucking _roommate_! Why didn't you call him instead?"

"Armin sleeps with his phone on aeroplane mode since last time…" Sasha laughed nervously, twiddling her fingers guiltily.

"Why am even friends with you?" he groaned.

"Because if you weren't, you'd have no friends. Also we're adorable," Sasha grinned, stepping past me as Jean held the door open.

Jean flicked the lights on, "I'm not meant to be here for another hour, so be as quiet as you can, alright?" he paused, "You know I'd still have Armin."

"Wow, Jean, you're really blowing us out of the water with such a detailed list of contacts, how do you even know that amount of people?" Connie smirked.

"Shut-up, fuckface. I can still throw you out."

There was silence for a moment, then:

"So… that new issue of _Scouting Legion_ wouldn't happen to be in the back room, would it?" Connie spoke nonchalantly, but Jean knew better. The both of them had this date circled on the calendar for months.

"You're not fooling anybody, guys."

"Please, please, please, _pleeeease_ let us see it!" Sasha pouted.

There really was no use fighting it.

"I'll go see, but you two assholes are helping me set up for the day," Jean sighed in defeat, unlocking the back room that was stacked with whatever didn't fit on the shelves.

Pulling out a stack and cutting the thin flimsy plastic, he turned to Connie and Sasha who appeared to be salivating, "If you replace that stand with these, I'll let you pay for it before 7, got it?"

They nodded and Jean walked back into the store room to start organising what needed to go out today. It was quiet for all of five minutes before the squealing begun.

"Connie! Sasha! Calm the fuck down before I throw you out!" he snapped, walking straight back into the main store. It was too early for this bullshit.

However his friends didn't even acknowledge him.

Sasha buzzed excitedly, "I cannot _even_ with the new issue!"

"Iron Wing and Lady Gravity are motherfucking _cannon_!" Connie exclaimed and they started bouncing. Again.

"I mean, I shipped Iron Wing and Spook too but still… Canon. It's _canon_. Iron Gravity is c-a-n-o-n!" Sasha beamed and Jean rested his head on the counter with a deep exasperated sigh.

Connie smirked at Jean, "You're such a fucking spoilsport."

"And you such a fucking dimwit to realize that just because it happens in the comics, don't mean it happens in real life."

Connie paused, "Unlike you, I have _met_ Lady Gravity–,"

Jean rolled his eyes, "You got evacuated from a building during a battle a year ago. There is a big difference."

"Sometimes I find it hard to believe that you actually like comics, the amount you complain about them…"

Sasha chuckled, "Lay off him, Connie. He's just pissy because they discontinued Spiderman."

Connie shrugged "Yeah well, Marvel hasn't made money off those old titles in years. Times change. Who cares about heroes who don't really exist?"

"I do!" Jean slammed his palm on the table, "Seriously, losing the _Fantastic 4_ was annoying, losing _The Avengers_ was a blow, but discontinuing _The Amazing Spiderman_? That shit's fucked up."

"I think it'd be epic to be a hero," Sasha smiled airily, gazing at her new comic.

Connie grinned, "You know, we should totally form a team."

Sasha's eyes went wide with excitement while Jean face-palmed, "Oh. Sure. Sounds like a great way to put to use your _non-existent powers_."

Connie rolled his eyes, "It's not your ability; it's how you use it. _Iron Wing_ has a Level 3 power, _Spook_ and _Lady Gravity_ only sit at Level 2 and yet they make one of the most successful teams since _Bio Mage_ and teamed up with _Sonic Vine_!"

"Yeah but you don't have any abilities to use to begin with," Jean pointed out.

"Don't insult me, Level 0."

The teenager behind the counter narrowed his eyes in complete disbelief of his friends stupidity, "Connie I swear to God we're_ all_ Level 0. Ninety-nine percent of the population is Level 0. Stop acting like I've personally offended you every time I remind you of reality. Now are you two going to pay for those comics or not?"

"Jean, my friend, my powers will develop any day now. You'll see."

"I'll see you when you stop being delusional."

"You'll see me after work, idiot, we live together!" Connie replied and Sasha snorted a laugh.

Jean sighed knowing there was no use arguing, "Honestly you really do need to pay for those."

"No shit." Connie rolled his eyes and forked over a bundle of crumpled dollar notes.

By the time the pair finished stacking the front shelves with new issues and gone, it was quarter to seven and a yawning Grandpa Arlert was making his way down the spiral staircase that lead to their apartment.

"Oh, hello Jean, you're here early," he smiled warmly and made his way behind the café counter.

"You have no idea."

* * *

The morning was busier than usual due to the new release of _Scouting Legion_ and the comic promptly sold out before noon which is when Armin returned from his morning class to help his grandfather with the lunch rush. Honestly, aside from dealing with some rather deflated customers who'd arrived all too late for the biggest release of the month, nothing all that interesting happened.

Or well, until Eren Jaeger showed up, storming through the shop as the very first person who didn't gawk at the _Scouting Legion_ stand.

"Kirschtein, you motherfucker," he glared from across the counter.

"Jaeger I'm at work, can your temper tantrum wait?"

But Eren, being the literal rage-fuelled combustion engine he was, wasn't having it, "I told you to stay away from my sister! I mean first off– ugh, fuck you!"

"Mikasa is nineteen, she does what she wants, which isn't me apparently," Jean sighed. Most days he'd be easy to bait but he wasn't really in the mood to lose his job over a punch up with this little green-eyed ball of misdirected anger. Not today at least.

"You fucking–"

"Eren, just leave. Please…" the calm words came from Armin who acted as if he were nothing more than an irritating customer.

The fiery teenager hesitated and something Jean couldn't quite put a finger on flashed behind the eyes that burned into his ex-best friend who stood stiffly at Jeans side behind the counter. Nobody actually knew what went down between them during at the end of senior year, but it had effectively ruined their friendship.

"Fine. Whatever." Eren muttered bitterly, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket to reveal only for a split-second a tattoo that Jean had never noticed before. It was a simple black 006 written in small print on the side of his neck bellow his ear.

Jean dismissed it knowing Jaeger was the kind to do shit drunk and impulsively, turning to Armin again, "Yeah, sorry about that."

The blond boy smiled lopsidedly, "Hey, I'm fine. However, enlighten me as to why you, a horrendously gay individual, asked out a girl?"

There was silence for a moment.

"Not gonna lie. It was to piss of Eren."

Armin groaned, "You're such a prick, what if she had said yes?"

"Armin, Mikasa isn't exactly straight either. Eren is just extremely oblivious to the sever lack of heterosexuality surrounding him."

"You are needlessly confusing people, Jean, it's a dick move," he paused, "but I digress as you have class right now so you'd better get going," Armin pointed to his wrist watch and Jean swore, "I'll sign off your hours, just don't be late again."

He didn't have time to wait, sliding over the counter in a way that made his friend cringe, Jean jogged out the door, dropping his bored under his feet almost immediately as he exited into the outdoor plaza.

Jean made it to class with minutes to spare only to realize his Professor was also late, which in all honesty he should have expected. Fishing out a notepad and pen from his deadbeat backpack, the freshman sat in his usual seat and passed the time scribbling cartoons down the margins. He'd never really considered his drawings anything special, especially not at art school when everybody around him was just as talented. It was fun a fun hobby that he'd picked up in the early years of middle school that both entertains him during tedious classes and infuriated his teachers, which of course is the epitome of a win/win situation for any eleven year old.

He wasn't sure why he'd chosen photography to major in specifically, given Jean's continuous battle with technology. He was a simple person who lived a simple life and cameras were anything but simple. Pencils were simple. Paper was simple. Cameras were as fucked up as the HTML Armin actually deemed "easy-peasy", and the C++ that brought out a creepily calm frustration Jean barely understood.

Like with Eren earlier, if it had been anybody else who's ex-best-friend strutted into their family-owned store they'd have been at least a little angry. Jean knew he would have been beyond pissed – but not Armin. He's always so… okay with everything, to the point where Jean really does wonder if he will snap one day and give up his life of constant kindness, unnatural calm and perfect grades to live in the forest mumbling in small tones and waking from nightmares of computers and coding.

Jean and Armin were practically opposites, the vastly complicated beside the largely simple, which is really what makes their friendship work. Jean and Connie were friends because they were largely alike in that they did basically nothing with their lives, therefore they didn't make either feel guilty for it. However with Connie, he learned a few days after they met, came Sasha, the poster child of ADHD, a compulsive food thief that possessed devil-fruit powers blessing her with a freakish metabolism. Sasha was the reason people believed red-heads don't have souls. Sasha could literally do anything and I would not surprise him. Sasha could kill a man and Jean wouldn't be shocked.

So maybe it's not about cameras. Maybe it's about photographs. A painting uses simple tools, but its essence is so complicated, so thought out. Planning went into that canvas; months went into its creation, layer upon layer of oils and acrylics and whatever else. Photography, to Jean, was the capture of a moment. It was a split second. It was the chance that when you flick through the camera, through a million plain, blurred or imperfect pictures, you'll find one and go "Yeah, that's it. That's what it felt like."

Or maybe Jean should stop contemplating his classes and begin listening to them.

As a first year student, most of the work load was focused on the technical side of photography. Pages and pages of notes on shutter speed, aperture and all those tediously boring techniques that drove Jean to the brink of madness by the end of most classes.

Eventually fifty minutes past in what felt like two hours, and the dubiously Canadian teenager (not really ready for the weighted term "young adult") left class, quickly stuffing the pages of notes into his bag with the reasoning that so long as he'd dated them they could be organised when exams crept up on his calendar.

Trost University's campus was ridiculously old and irritating large, to a point where when Jean first refused to skate places like he'd done since he'd first set foot on a board out of fear that Professor McGonagall would stride through the corridors and deduct points from Slytherin.

(Yes, he really did consider himself a Slytherin.)

However despite the grandeur of the school, the dorms were no less rowdy than any other. An average bed time (or point in which somebody passes out) ranged from 2am to sunrise, which means that no matter the time there will always be people in the common rooms, whether they crashed on a mountain of school work, were kicked out by a lucky roommate to mumble angrily about their non-existent sex lives or were just really fucking weird. Like the tinfoil hat guys. Did he even go to Trost? Nobody really knew. He just always seemed to be there.

Luckily it was just past two o'clock when Jean sauntered into Maria, meaning that the area was filled with relatively normal people. There were a few dead-eyed, coffee-addicted robotic work machines but given it was a collage, what else was to be expected?

Skipping steps until he reached the third floor, Jean frustratingly checked almost every pocket he had before fishing out the key from the inside pouch of his hoodie and slipping it into the lock, realizing with irritation the door had been unlocked the whole time.

Now, he wouldn't say the room he shared with Connie was _messy_ exactly – it was just cluttered. They knew where things were, and where things were kept, however unconventionally that may be. The walls were painted a white wash and the carpet a light brown however upon entrance you probably wouldn't even know as almost every square nice of the room was covered with posters stolen from cinemas and photos of Connie and Sasha being dweebs tacked about his desk with those of his family and old high school mates from the AV club. The floor was covered in tarp for many reasons; food, weed and unusual experiments being some of the main contributors. Connie's closet had been converted into a large storage for his crazy DVD collection and the microwave while Jean's was filled with both their comics and books (labelled with masking tape that could easily be pulled off so they didn't confuse whose was whose). And that was about as organised at it got.

Clothing was kept (read: shoved, thrown, forgotten about) in their desk draws. Their bunk bed was pressed between the corner and their closets which were sturdy and built into the walls, letting Connie who possessed the top bunk to set up a small TV and hang a blanket from the roof to his bed to create a small den on his bed with a pinned sign reading "CONNIE AND SASHA'S CLUBHOUSE" Jean created a similar set up, tucking black felt under Connie's mattress, letting the two stay up as long as they want without the light keeping the other up.

Jean dumped his backpack on the desk with a loud thud, letting Connie and Sasha know he was there as they giggled between each other in their den.

"Hey Con, have you seen my iPod?" Jean asked.

His dim-witted friend spoke robotically, "Sorry Connie can't hear you. He's in his Clubhouse."

Jean groaned in frustration, climbing up the bunk bed ladder, "Connie I hate you."

"Sir, you'll have to provide the secret password to be granted entry to the Clubhouse."

"Ugh, fine. _Pizza_. Now let me in," he let out an exasperated sigh, deciding to just go with it.

"Password: Incorrect."

"_Potato_?"

"Nope."

"Jesus Fucking Christ Springer!" Jean exclaimed and ripped open the fabric they'd been holding shut.

They looked up at him innocently, sitting with crossed legs in the cramped space, "Oh, hey Jean! Didn't see you there!" Sasha grinned cheerily.

"Fucking pricks, you seen my iPod?" he questioned.

"Did you check the jeans you wore yesterday?" Sasha offered.

"I've been wearing these jeans all week," he muttered.

Sasha wrinkled her nose, "Gross, dude. I have, like, a four day limit."

"I really like these jea– you know what? Not the point. I need my iPod. I'm heading to Armin's to study."

Connie smirked, "Are you _completely sure_ the two of you broke up?"

Jean rolled his eyes, "We were a thing for a week before realizing we were better off as friends."

"Yeah, plus Armin is waaay too cute for you," Sasha pointed out and Jean glowered.

"True," Connie nodded along.

"If you see my iPod lemme know alright. Have fun doing… whatever the two of you do. No eating on my bed. No eating off the tarp. No foil in the microwave. No campfires. No scattering my boxers on the front lawn again because that wasn't even funny."

"Yes mother!" they crooned in chorus and Jean slung his back over her back again and slammed the door.

Across the corridor a seedy looking blond-haired guy he didn't recognise lent against the wall and arched an eyebrow, "You room with that Springer kid?"

"Yeah, what of it?"

The dude laughed, "He's pretty close with that red-head, isn't he?"

"Uh, yeah. Closer than twins. Weasley twins that is, not Lannister," he mumbled.

"That's nice. What the girls name?" he grinned toothily.

Jean narrowed his eyes, "What is this? Some kind of interrogation?"

"Simple curiosity. She's in my feminist studies class. Anyway, I'll see you around. Good luck, Kirschtein."

_Feminist studies my ass_, Jean thought, watching as he sauntered off before moving on towards the stairs, shrugging away creepiness of the encounter with a tingle down his spine.

Jean arrived back at the Comic Café around three-thirty, deciding as per usual not to enter through the front door in some unconscious final half-assed attempt to separate work from friends and instead skipped down the thin alley way that led to the small concrete courtyard behind the store, climbing up the fire escape to the third story as he'd done a million times before finding Armin's window propped open with a paperweight expectantly.

Sliding it open Jean and his strategically dyed hair climbed through the window and dropped into Armin's bedroom with a sly grin finding the blond boy seated on the floor with a laptop propped on his lap.

"You don't even knock anymore," he commented without removing his eyes from the screen.

Jean smirked and lent back giving the window three loud knocks and Armin smiled, "You brought your homework?"

Then, without further warning Jean poured the contents of his bag onto the floor, "I'm not entirely hopeless, it's in there somewhere. Probably."

Armin stared in horror at the pile, "Jean that's not a mess – that's a lower life form gathering sentience. Fix it. I will not have such a mess on my floor."

They set to their individual tasks quickly, Jean spending a large amount of time organising his things and finding; eleven pens, seven pencils, all the highlighters he thought he'd lost, a large bundle of scrunched paper covered in notes and scribbles, three apple cores, a million gum wrappers and a deceased blackened banana.

Once he'd stapled the terms notes into a some-what understandable and systematic order, he set to reading them over and rewriting them in a more concise format that'd actually be useful during exam time. Armin pointed out he wouldn't keep having this problem if he just kept them tidy on a regular basis, but Jean retorted saying it helped him solidify the information in his mind, which was more or less true.

Pushing six, the sky was growing dark outside the window and Jean resorted to ripping his old notes into little strips, scrunching them into balls and throwing them at Armin's bin with a surprising amount of accuracy.

The younger boy sighed and pushed the PC away, "You hungry?"

"I'm nineteen. I'm always hungry."

Scrambling to their feet the two boys headed downstairs to the small kitchen where Armin's grandfather sat around a table with four other older men eyeing each other suspiciously, a hungry gaze on the pile of comics in the middle of the table. Before first coming to Armin's home in senior year, he'd never heard of using literature in poker. Jean had heard of watches and jewellery and in some instances, first-born children – but books, as far has he knew, were unique to this group.

"I didn't see you come in, Jean!" a poker night regular named Stephan exclaimed with a German accent looking rosy in the cheeks.

"Must have missed me," he smirked, humouring the man.

"And how're you doing in school Armin? Jean?"

"We have exams soon," the blond mumbled absentmindedly, opening the fridge and leaning down to investigate its inhabitants.

Jean smiled, "By soon he means months away."

"Plenty of time for the two of you to find girlfriends so you don't spend every day hanging out here," Stephan chuckled to himself.

There was an awkward silence and Jean caught Mr Arlert smirking at his cards while Armin kept his face buried in the refrigerator.

Armin's grandfather barked a laugh, "They have more important things to be worrying about than girls, you know."

_Like boys_, Jean added in his mind with a sly smile.

Harry, another player, scoffed, "I've never seen any of them even talk to a girl! I was married by that age!"

"And now you're old, divorced and alone. Funny that," the eldest Arlert joked.

"We're all old, divorced and alone – that's why we play poker every Friday. Which reminds me, handover the Agatha Christie, my royal flush dominates all you fuckers!"

Armin sighed then asked in a murmured tone, "What's your opinion on pizza?" and the pair of drastically homosexual teenagers left the men to bicker between themselves, shuffling back upstairs.

* * *

At one in the morning when Jean finally climbed back out of Armin's window it had begun to drizzle, the droplets obscuring his vision as they splashed on his horn-rimmed glasses. He'd left his skateboard at Armin's due to the darkness of a clouded moon, picking instead to walk.

Campus was dim, the flickering streetlights overhead illuminating the sidewalk as his battered converse splash uncaringly in the growing puddles.

Jean lives a life almost perpetually bored and generally unfazed by anything that could swing his way, however unlike others of such a predicament, he didn't really seek adventure outside the little cramped box he'd quite happily trapped himself in. He was okay how he was, content living the mundane instances of life as they came. A proverbial Bilbo Baggins.

But life, you see, really likes to fuck with people.

A second past and he first noticed the footsteps behind him in the eerily quiet night. Two people, ten paces back – nothing to worry about. Two people, growing closer – slight discomfort. Two people, turning down the small lane he'd darted to – _well, I'm fucked_, he thought.

Then the impossible happened.

(And believe me when I say, he didn't use that word lightly. What occurred was truly inconceivable.)

The next few minutes happened faster than anything Jean had ever experienced previously, as a figure flickered into existence right before him like an old florescent light flicking on and shoved him back roughly. Hands cold like metal in the frost fastened like chains around his wrist, twisting them into a painful know that kept him still while duct tape was pulled over his mouth.

"This might pinch a little," spoke the tall masked man before him as his stabbed a needle into his arm.

There had been no time to react, no time to resist. One second he had been free and the next, Jean Kirschtein was falling limp and somehow, the darkness grew darker.

* * *

Jean distantly remembers being told once that when you remember something, you are in fact remembering the last time you remembered it. Whether that was true, or his freshman biology teacher had been a misinformed liar, he did not know.

Before he even opened his eyes, Jean felt an ache in his muscles that started from the back of his neck and worked its way across the body with pulsing pain.

Slowly he felt a voice, but it was so far away. As if he were under water, the sound was blurred. Unrecognisable.

There was a presence around him, beside him maybe, but he couldn't focus. His eyes couldn't open.

Snippets of speech begun to catch in his mind, things like "are you okay?" and "wake up!" except he couldn't really recall what they meant.

He felt weightless and burning, as if somebody had poured liquid metal into his brain.

Then, all of a sudden, the figure grabbed him and there was a yell. Jean's eyes flashed open and he jolted up with a scream, "_Putain aidez-moi!_"

His breaths were heavy and rampant as a freckled man with dark concerned eyes leaned over him, "Are you okay?"

"_Bien sûr, je ne suis pas d'accord! Qui diable êtes-vous?_" Jean swore, staring expectantly at the man who looked baffled.

"_Uh_... _parlez-vous… anglais?_" he spoke with off pronunciation, but to was enough to clear Jean's head.

"_Oui_… yes. Yeah I do. Fuck. I speak English." Jean's head spun and he noticed he was in an unfamiliar place – a small kitchen. He was on the table, on a blood stained towel.

"I found you in an alley way a few hours ago, do… do you remember anything?" he bit his lip nervously.

"A light so bright it burned," he mumbled before he even had time to contemplate the words, leaning back on his elbows. Trying to remember what had happened, but drawing a complete blank. As if somebody has poured detergent into his skull and washed his brain clean of memory.

Freckles nodded thoughtfully, "I need to see your back now, do you think you could turn over?"

Jean nodded and begun to slowly turn his body with a sharp intake of breath when Freckles clasped his shoulders to steady him.

There was a gasp.

"What? Is it bad?" Jean's voice sounded slightly panicked.

"Uh, no – have you ever heard of a Lichtenberg figure?" he shook his head and Freckles explained "It's the scar left when people are struck by fork lightning…"

Jean seemed to mull this over, "So you think I was struck by lightning?"

"Maybe… but you were also covered in cuts and bruises like you'd been in a fight. How about you let me heal your back and then we can look at it properly?"

Then, before Jean could answer cool hands rested themselves just above his skin and the pain begun to lessen rapidly. He couldn't turn to see what Freckles was doing, but he could assume.

"You're an abnormal," he spoke directly.

There was a chuckle, "Born and bred."

"You seem mighty casual about it," Jean spoke suspiciously.

The freckled man shrugged, "It's not that big of a deal."

"My best friend's an abnormal too. Please tell me you're studying pre-med," Jean smirked and winced as Freckles's healing hands reached his neck.

"Criminal psychology, actually. At Trost. What about you? Are you still in school?"

Jean cocked an eyebrow, "I'm only nineteen. I'm majoring in photography."

Freckles looked taken aback, "I thought you were older than me, I'm twenty."

There was silence as Freckles pressed his hand into Jeans side, the teenager letting out a cry as he felt his ribs snap back together, "Sorry. I should have given you some kind of anaesthetic – I was hoping you wouldn't wake during the healing, but I think we're done here,"

His legs trembled like a Parkinson's patient as Jean regained his balance, leaning against the bench as his head spined with Freckles steading his shoulders. It felt like his brain had swollen and was pressing against his skull. With difficulty, he took his first steps.

"I found a phone, glasses and all your piercings in your pocket so I'll go grab them. You were sort of bloody up so I put your shirt and jacket in the wash."

Jean looked down to his pants which were black and slightly stained, but nothing that couldn't wait until he got home. Assessing his surroundings, Jean realized the apartment was actually quite nice and tidy – he also realized he was half naked.

Luckily when Freckles returned he handed Jean a clean Trost University hoodie. Jean first re-pierced himself and the healer watched in amusement, "How about I make breakfast and you go make the calls you need to."

Jean paused right before exiting to turn and ask, "Sorry, what's your name again?"

"Marco. You?"

"Jean."

Then he ducked into the next room and fished out his phone which was somehow fully charged and called the first person he could think of – Armin, but the irritatingly intelligent blond wasn't picking up.

So he dialled for Connie, who picked up on the first ring.

"WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN? SASHA AND ME WERE WORRIED SICK, DUDE!"

"What're you talking about?"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'VE BEEN MISSING FOR _DAYS_!"

Suddenly Jean's realized was had happened and thought up an excuse, "Dude, I sent a text saying I'd be with my aunt's this weekend, they're down from Quebec."

"Wait what?" Connie replied with confusion.

Jean kept it up "Didn't you get it?"

"I – uh – no. I did not."

There was an awkward silence before Connie spoke again, "So why'd you call anyway?"

_Shit._

"I – uhh – was wondering if you'd seen Armin around? He's not answering his texts."

"Isn't he at work? Shouldn't you be at work too?" Connie sounded confused.

"Yes." Jean answered in an even tone and hung up the phone.

Walking back into the kitchen to see Marco scrambling eggs on the stove humming a tune to himself.

"It's Sunday today, isn't it?" it was more of a statement than a question.

Marco stopped and turned around to see Jean leaning against the doorframe.

"Last thing I remember is Friday. That's two missing days. I'd understand it more if I sold drugs or was a part of a gang, but I'm an arts student who works in a comic café. This shit doesn't happen to me. _What the fuck_."

"How about we take this one step at a time, starting with food. Do you have anywhere to be today?" he asked calmly.

"I'm meant to be at work now,"

"I think this justifies missing it, you can call later and explain–"

"They'll understand. My boss is the grandfather of my best friend."

"The abnormal?" Marco questioned.

"Uh, yes. I probably shouldn't have told you that." Jean bit his lip guiltily.

He smiled warmly and scraped from the pan onto two plats with toast, "Well, you were slightly disorientated. Also concussed, which is something I can't fix."

Setting down the food, Jean sat at the small circular table and eyed the Disney Princess Colouring books that sat in a stack.

"Hobby of yours?"

"I have a little sister," Marco chuckled, "Coffee?"

Jean nodded and dug hungrily into the breakfast before him, now the rest of his body had turned into a dull ache he could feel the two days' worth of starvation churning in the pits of his gut.

They talked for what seemed like thirty minutes but in real time ended up being a good hour before Jean realized he needed to get home.

Standing at the doorstep he suddenly felt nervous looking at the man who saved his life.

"Thanks for everything. I owe you a lot," he spoke slowly.

Freckles grinned, "Anybody would have done it..."

"Dude, no. People are assholes. Just accept the thank you."

"I accept the thank you," he smirked.

Jean winked and turned on his heel with hands stuffed in his pockets, trying not to show a limp as he made his way to the closest subway.

* * *

Monday rolled in alongside its torturous morning classes and Jean, who'd literally missed the entire weekend, felt completely unprepared. His mind was too preoccupied with the slight issue of his kidnaping, and the brown-eyed healer who had saved his sorry ass.

Since the night before, the vaguely punk teenager had fished out the old pocket knife his dad had given him as a kid and decided it's be better to keep on his person.

It wasn't the idea that he was kidnapped that scared him really, but the fact he remembered nothing. That fact that no matter how hard he tried his mind remained clouded. Fear of the unknown was an inescapable part of being human; the terror that you will look into the abyss and naught would look back. It is the deeply seeded distress created by the idea of nothingness, of emptiness, that there is a place where nothing exists but you and the deepest cracks in your mind.

Children are afraid of the dark because it's where monsters hide, adults are afraid of the dark because it where they will themselves. In the end, the two fears aren't all that different at all.

And it left Jean edgy, alert suddenly to every sound around him as if the buzz of electricity in the streetlight was running right through his veins.

When he reached the Comic Café it was growing busy, Armin looking to Jean as if he was some kind of saviour just in time for lunch hour rush. There was no time for chatter as Jean took over the comic desk and Armin raced to help his grandfather with the preparation of food.

It was one in the afternoon when the stream of customers begun to steady and Armin and Jean begun bringing plates and cutlery to the kitchen. Jean offered to help with the washing, but Armin insisted it was okay – he needed to man the register anyway.

The small _ding_ of a bell rang through the store as the door opened and Jean looked up from his comic to see a familiar freckled face.

"Marco?" he spoke in disbelief.

"Hey, Jean. I brought your clothes back," he smiled.

He blinked, "That was fast…"

"I do washing every second night, so not really," Freckles laughed.

"I'm lucky if I get to the Laundromat once a month, what kind of Uni student are you?"

Marco rolled his eyes, "If you don't wash blood out fast enough it stains, and then you gotta use hydrogen peroxide…"

"You are way too responsible," Jean deadpanned, smirking.

Marco raised an eyebrow, "And that's a bad thing…?" he paused, something catching his eyes on the stand beside. His eyes clouded with something Jean couldn't recognise.

"You a comic book fan?" Jean asked.

Marco looked up and smiled again, but something was different, "Mainly when I was a kid, but yeah… I think I might get this for Marie."

He placed a the _Bio Mage_ 25th Anniversary re-release of Issue #1 on the counter and Jean, biting back his personal opinion said, "A classic, huh?"

Marco paid and left with a quiet "See you later," and Jean turned around to find Armin leaning against the doorway to the kitchen.

"Who was that, and why was he returning your clothes?" the blond boy asked with a sly grin.

"Boy, have I got a story for you…"

* * *

The two teenagers lounged on Armin's floor as Jean took a deep breath, "It started when I was walking back from your place, it was late and I remember realizing I was being followed. Things blur around there, but I know I was attacked by three guys before I blacked out. Fast forward to yesterday morning and that guy from earlier – Marco – he finds me bashed and bloody in a gutter. Thank fuck, because apparently I was half-dead. He takes me back to his place and… uh, fixes me up. See, he's an abnormal like you. A healer."

Armin processed this for a moment, "Do you have any proof that Marco didn't make that shit up and is a crazy psychopath?"

Jean didn't answer, instead standing up and pulling his shirt over his head, exposing his scared back.

"Holy fuck."

Armin very rarely swore so Jean laughed bitterly, "I doubt any basic psycho could give me a Lichtenberg figure."

"You have anything I can read then?" Armin asked, referring to his abnormality. Generally the smaller teenager avoided talking about his ability – as far as he knew only Mikasa, Eren and his Grandfather knew.

"Nothing that hasn't been tainted," Jean sighed, pulling his shirt back over his head.

"I hoped you wouldn't say that," he muttered and pulled himself up from the carpet.

Armin stood before him pulling off the gloves Jean had barely ever seen him without, even during the time when they dated. Steel eyed and shaky handed, he reached up and placed his cold fingertips to Jean's temples and all of a sudden the world seemed to drop around him.

And then, Jean was screaming.

Burning from the inside out, white hot needles stabbed into his skin. Everything was white, the unforgettable light seared into his retinas. It felt like an eternity crammed into a millisecond and then, the voice, yelling above the electrical static buzzing inside his head.

Gasping he jumped up, shattering back to reality like a bullet through glass. Armin lent over him looking panicked.

"Ouch," the blond cursed, "You shocked me. I think somehow you might have been struck by lightning."

"No, I can't have been… that doesn't explain the kidnapping and how Marco found me..." Jean mumbled, regaining his breath.

"Either way, this is most definitely strange," Armin's eyebrows knitted together and flinched, "I need an aspirin…"

He left the room quietly as Jean lent against the foot of his friends bed, for the first time in his life, wondering if he was adventuring inside some sort of terrible dream.

* * *

It was pushing 11pm when Jean finally made it back to his dorm, taking a few tries to fit the key in the lock due to general lack of interest in being awake. His bones ached, his eyes drooped, the world was blurry and quite frankly he couldn't care less if an asteroid hit this very moment – Jean Kirschtein needed sleep more than air in that very moment, and nothing would keep his head from hitting that pillow…

… except maybe two irritating individuals by the names of Conrad Isaac Springer and Sasha Jane Blouse, who had pulled back the curtains to their Super-Secret Best Friends Forever Clubhouse and where carefully analysing stacks of old DVD's over a bag of Supreme Cheese Doritos.

Jean picked up a disc sitting at the top of a pile, "_Scouting Legion – Fox News Report – 02/07/2012_… guys this obsession is getting kinda pathetic, and marginally worrying."

Sasha grinned and spoke with a mouthful, "Hey Jean, how was your night?"

"Shitty."

Connie paused the tape, "I'm a film major; this is a part of my documentary project. The working title is _Behind the Mask_, what do you think?"

"I think you're both insane, this is a huge invasion of privacy, and that I want to fucking sleep. Do what you want because I sincerely have absolutely no more shits left to give right now, Con, but if we get pissed off heroes knocking on our door because you little fuckers decided to dedicate you lives to unmasking them, I will personally have a hit man hired to cut off your balls."

The bald teenager gulped, "Your insults are always strangely descriptive and relate to the mutilation of my genitalia. I'm beginning to think it means something…"

Jean scowled, "If you wake me up, I will hang you both naked out the window with wire nooses."

"Yeah, see that's exactly what I'm talking about," Connie spoke with mocking concern, but Jean didn't care anymore as he dove into bed, clothes and all.


End file.
